


It's Just a Game

by bimmykimmy



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Rival Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bimmykimmy/pseuds/bimmykimmy
Summary: Hunk groans and turns to his own bag, stuffing his bat inside the top portion and quickly zipping it up. “Not this again,” he mumbles his complaint that he knows will go unheard.It does. But you can hear the snap of frustration emanating from Lance. “Another?!” he practically screeches. Their teammates laugh at his voice crack, others at the familiarity of the scenario. Lance has a particularly competitive nature about him. It’s charming, really, if not a little obnoxious. But it’s a trait that makes him a valuable player. Lance fumes as he zips his bag shut again. “Their pitcher is insane. I’d call him my hero, if he wasn’t so— Wait a sec, I thought he got injured?”Pidge shakes her head with a grin, eager to share the news. “They have a new guy! I heard he played for some semi-pro league somewhere out of state for a while before moving back in with his cousin.” She finally enters the dugout and squats down to remove her shin guards. “Who just so happens to be their poor, injured ace. Baseball must run in their blood.”---------------------------------Otherwise known as the Voltron crew are baseball players and intensity ensues. Rated M for later chapters. Allurance is secondary.





	1. Chapter 1

The crack of the bat reverberates high over the tree line, and it’s followed by a series of cheers and hollers. Feet stomp and hands clap while the scoreboard clicks, adding the home-run to the Cadets’ score.

Hunk keeps his head ducked, chin pointed toward his chest to hide his smile in fear of appearing cocky. He rounds third, cleat tramping up dust as he runs past the baseman who stands with limp arms and gawked mouth.

His team waits for him at home, crowding him in a giant dog pile as he finally reaches the plate. Hands are all around him, slapping and patting and he can’t tell who's who surrounded by so much enthusiasm. Someone knocks against his helmet excitedly like a desperate woodpecker and Hunk lets a laugh finally bubble over.

“And that’s the slaughter rule, folks,” he hears a teammate boast. Hunk straightens up and glances at the scoreboard while still getting jostled this way and that. Their shortstop is right about the rule and the feeling is unreal. Hunk’s never seen a score so unbalanced. He’s never had this many home-runs in his life.

The umpire sounds her whistle, ending the game, and calling for a line up. The crowd cheers again, clapping and yelling praise. Hunk’s overly-invested mother yells the loudest. Hunk avoids looking into the bleachers, blushing as a slew of _that’s my boy!_ s and _you see that handsome guy?!_ s, and _my son, the home-run king!!_ s pierce everyone’s ears. She’s been like that since his little league days, it isn’t surprising she’s just as passionate for his junior college career. Hunk jogs into his place, tugging at his batting glove and quickly wiping his sweaty palm on his pants before lining up behind their team’s pitcher.

“That was _sick_ ,” Lance says to him over his shoulder as the two teams slowly crawl through a series of high-fives and mumbled ‘good games.’ “How many was that?”

“Five or six? Maybe?” Hunk replies with a growing grin. He makes sure to let it drop a little when he shakes the other team’s pitcher’s hand, and they finish their greetings with their opponents who despite their loss are good sports about it. Hunk and Lance walk back to the dugout together when he continues the conversation. “It’s not that special though. You’re the one who almost had a no-hitter!”

“ _Almost,_ ” Lance emphasizes when he unzips his dusty, black bag. “That number four thinks he’s so cool with his hair and his—” he gestures vaguely in an attempt to capture what can only be described as boy-band idol-tiered good looks. Knowing it’s a useless attempt Lance clicks his tongue in annoyance and places a ball in his glove and the glove in his bag. “Whatever. I’ll get one next time.”

“Did you hear the Lions had their second no-hitter on Saturday?” Pidge leans into the dugout, facemask tilted up on top of her head and hands hidden behind her back. As she takes off her sunglasses she grins deviously. Although, she doesn’t mean for it to be. Without her prescriptions, her eyes automatically squint and it makes her look like she’s constantly scheming. The rest of the team’s _uncertain_ that that isn’t the truth.

Hunk groans and turns to his own bag, stuffing his bat inside the top portion and quickly zipping it up. “Not this again,” he mumbles his complaint that he knows will go unheard.

It does. But you _can_ hear the snap of frustration emanating from Lance. “Another?!” he practically screeches. Their teammates laugh at his voice crack, others at the familiarity of the scenario. Lance has a particularly competitive nature about him. It’s charming, really, if not a little obnoxious. But it’s a trait that makes him a valuable player. Lance fumes as he zips his bag shut again. “Their pitcher is insane. I’d call him my hero, if he wasn’t so— Wait a sec, I thought he got injured?”

Pidge shakes her head with a grin, eager to share the news. “They have a new guy! I heard he played for some semi-pro league somewhere out of state for a while before moving back in with his cousin.” She finally enters the dugout and squats down to remove her shin guards. “Who just so happens to be their poor, injured ace. Baseball must run in their blood.”

“Who cares!” Lance spits defensively despite this news and yanks Pidge’s faceguard off her head. “H-he’s probably—”

“Woah, for real?” Hunk comments now, slinging his bag straps over his shoulders and kneeling down to help Pidge with removing more of her gear. Pidge grins again, squinty eyes and all. One of the reasons Coach allows her to be catcher despite her small size is her nearly polished way of obtaining information. She can scan an entire team and suddenly tell you their entire stats, like some sort of virus software looking for holes in a firewall. She scares Hunk a little sometimes. And other times, he just wants to pinch her cute cheeks. Or tug her little arms. He hates those things.

“He hasn’t been with them for very long,” she continues with a snap movement that returns her regular glasses to her face, and she closes the case to emphasize her next sentence. “But he’s good. Matt says he clocked in an 88 mph pitch. The Lions’ win count is definitely going to skyrocket.”

“88,” Hunk says through a breath. “He sounds awesome.”

“No, Hunk,  _you’re_ awesome!” Lance blurts as he kneels down now too to take the rest of Pidge’s gear off. She smiles and relaxes, letting her servants do the work. “Did you forget you literally just won us the game by sending us into the slaughter rule?! You know that doesn’t happen often, right? Give yourself some credit, for crying out loud. Who cares if the Lions have some new ace pitcher? I’m the real ace! And with your power hits, we'll be— _why are we doing this for you?!”_ Lance quickly shifts gears and gives Pidge a tiny shove when she bursts out laughing.

Hunk chuckles a bit too, standing and letting his gaze drift back toward the field through the chain-link fence. He wonders what hitting an 88 mile-per-hour pitch would feel like. His hands clench as a small swell of excitement fills his chest. Excitement, though it may be, but also somewhere deep underneath his soft exterior. Deep beyond the humble left-fielder visage, sparks a tiny flame. It burns low and quiet, but it rears the unmistakable flicker of competition.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The strobing lights and thumping music do very little to soothe the throbbing headache Hunk currently suffers from.  Hunk hadn’t necessarily _wanted_ to go to the party, but he admits he has a weakness for Lance’s butterfly lashes and pouty lips. It’s for a good occasion, to celebrate their win; Lance’s reasoning had been as such. Hunk’s idea of celebration of a win differs greatly from his dear friend, but he figured, what the hell, and came along. Another painful stab to his temple hammers in more regret on that decision.

Somewhere along the course of the night, he’d of course lost Lance. He’s not worried… too much. Lance is a big boy and he thrives on attention. Hunk is…well, he’s a big boy too! But thrives much, much less. The only time he really feels comfortable is on the field. Elsewhere is just off. He isn’t a recluse by any means, but given the choice he’d much rather be building a computer in the safety of his cluttered room, or stealing cooking utensils and rushing his mother out of the kitchen than being accidentally bumped and grinded on by someone he knows has had too much to drink.

“Woah, okay,” Hunk says mostly to himself as he lifts his own drink out of the danger of being spilt. The pretty girl who’s hair smells sweet like bananas spins and smiles at him; laughter spilling out as she stumbles a bit toward him. She says something with sparkling eyes, as if she’s telling him the secrets of the world. He can’t understand a single word of it. “Yeah, okay you have fun!” Hunk says again as he half-dances his way out of her strike zone.

When safely off to the side, he lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. His headache is just going to get worse at this point, and rather than rain on Lance’s parade (wherever he may be) and asking to leave, he decides to head outside. He figures the clear air will help. And it does a little when the music becomes muffled as he shuts the door to the garage. To his surprise there are small tables set up and even _more_ coolers lined in the back. The big garage door is open with white plastic lawn chairs strewn about; cars pulled back into the driveway to make room. Hunk scans the area quickly, and sees one other body sitting in a chair, back facing him.

With a deep breath, Hunk steps down the small cement stairs and slowly makes his way to one of the chairs. He passes a table, placing his mostly undrunk beer down and sits in a seat a few away from the guy. His presence is immediately noticed and their eyes meet for a moment.

“Hey, man.”

“Hi,” the guy responds softly, like his mind is still fuzzy from a day dream.

“Okay if I sit?”

“Go for it.”

So he does, letting out a small puff of air when he leans back. These chairs aren’t comfortable, but there is something about sitting outside in a plastic seat with the night sky hovering above you that just feels right. He can’t bask for too long, however, since the throbbing in his head reminds him why he came outside in the first place.

He lets out a small grunt, lifting his hands to his temples and applying some pressure in hopes of relief.

“Uh, are you alright?” He hears the guy to his right ask, voice still soft with just enough rasp to it that makes him sound tired. Maybe even bored.

“Yeah, sorry,” Hunk says uncomfortably, turning to face him with his hands still holding his head. “Just a bad headache. I’ve had it since this afternoon—probably too much sun. I came outside to see if it would help.”

“Do you want some drugs?”

“What?! No, I don’t do that sort of— oh,” Hunk pauses when the guy pulls out a small bottle of Aleve from the bag he has placed at his feet. “Oh, _duh_. Those kinds of drugs.”

With a short laugh, the guy cracks the top off and tips two into his palm. “Do you need water too?” Without waiting for a reply, he fishes an unopened water bottle from the same bag and offers that to Hunk too.

Hunk, feeling suddenly very bashful, but also incredibly moved by such a kind gesture, takes the offering. “That’s…really nice of you. Thank you.” There’s a short pause and he eyes the stranger carefully, a hint of suspicion. “Why do you just, like, _have_ these on you?”

The guy laughs again and starts to explain, and Hunk can’t help but notice how soothing his voice sounds. Like he doesn’t talk much, so when he does it’s specific and meaningful. Actually, now that he _really_ looks at the guy. Wow. He pops the pills in his mouth and takes a much bigger swig of water than necessary. Hunk hadn’t precisely planned on socializing at the party, but if it’s someone like this then…well, you get the point. The dude looks like some sort of sports illustrated model for the latest leather jacket craze. Hunk hasn’t seen a real leather jacket on someone younger than 30 in a long while. However, the most prominent feature is definitely his eyebrows. They’re perfectly plucked and have edges like daggers. They’re dark too, thick like Hunk’s but so much more tame. Is that a weird thing to notice about a person? He should probably get back to the leather jacket thing—

“—here?” The guy’s voice suddenly hits Hunk’s receptors and he realizes he zoned out. He blinks a few times, shaking his head to rid whatever weird thoughts his fuzzy brain conjured. Crap, he hadn’t listened to anything he just said.

“What was that?” he says with a small blush crawling onto his cheeks. He squeezes the half empty water bottle in his hand, plastic crunching in his grip as he twists the lid shut.

The sports illustrated model quirks his powerful eyebrow, glances down at the water bottle, and asks, “I said do you live around here? If you’re not feeling well, you should go home.”

Hunk blinks a bit, soaking in the words and also wishing he could re-hear why the guy had Aleve and water on him. Instead, he settles for, “Oh, well, no. Not really. I’m a few towns over— came with a friend of mine tonight. He just wanted to relax and have some fun, so,” Hunk shrugs. “I didn’t want to spoil it.”

His new chatting buddy smiles and nods slowly, letting his gaze slip back toward outside of the garage. “I can relate,” he says and nods his head sideways. “I live down the street. Actually, I just moved in, so I was told to come here to ‘make friends.’” He uses air quotes and a deeper voice, obviously mimicking whoever ordered him to go. Given his obvious disdain and the very fact that he was sitting outside alone, Hunk assumes the whole friend-making situation has not been successful. “I do just fine on my own…but didn’t want him to worry, so I came.”

Hunk smiles at that; not surprised at all that a guy who willingly shares his pain meds and water with a complete stranger at a college house party is also the type of guy to please a family member.

“Well, I’m glad you did.” Hunk smiles wider, leaning over and clapping the guy on the shoulder. “You saved my brain.”

The guy turns to him, toward his touch; eyes catching the moonlight for just a second and Hunk feels his breath leave him.

“ _Woah pretty_ ,” he can’t even stop himself from saying it. The guy’s eyes narrow, though it doesn’t look like an unkind expression, merely quizzical. Immediately Hunk breaks into a hot flush and removes his hand like he’s been electrocuted.

He doesn’t know if it’s for his own good that it happens, but suddenly his phone rings. It buzzes wildly in his back pocket, sound emboldened against the plastic of the chair. The two of them jump at the sudden intrusive noise.

“S-sorry!” Hunk sputters and scrambles for his phone. It’s Lance’s caller ID and he slides it unlocked. “Lance?”

“My foot is stuck. _Help me._ ”

Hunk blinks, lifts his phone away and looks at it as if it holds the answers, then puts it back to his ear. “Your foot—”

“ _Is stuck_ , yes. In some weird piping underneath the sink. I’m in the bathroom on the second floor.”

“Will I get some sort of explanation or…”

“Hunk!” Lance’s desperation comes through clearly and Hunk’s mom-friend mode activates. He suddenly stands, determination written on his features.

“Okay, hang on I’ll be right there,” he says this but as he does, his gaze drifts back to Sports Illustrated. He sits still, looking up at Hunk with an almost expectant look to his big, charoite eyes. Hunk hears Lance whine some sort of grateful speech and he hangs up, letting his arm drop to his side. “That’s uh, that was my friend I told you about. I gotta go help him with…a thing.”

“Oh,” he responds simply, blinking slowly as he looks down at his hands. “All right. See ya.”

Hunk hesitates and it shows. Sports Illustrated looks at him again, those deep eyes glancing at him up and down and Hunk _really_ doesn’t want to leave all of a sudden. But Lance is in trouble, and Hunk’ll be damned if he doesn’t help a friend in need.

_He owes me big time,_ Hunk thinks to himself as he comes to his ultimate decision to leave. But it’s not entirely over. There’s still one thing he can do. Something that modern time has made to infinitesimally simplify subtly showing interest without seeming desperate.

“Do you have Facebook?”

“Huh?” he responds, but quickly gets the picture and adds, “Oh, yeah. Well, kind of. I don’t use it too often.”

_Perfect,_ Hunk thinks, _Just the right amount of nonchalant-ness I need._

“You seem like a pretty cool dude.” He lifts his phone, displaying it for example purposes. “Would you wanna…?”

There’s a short pause and Hunk watches the guy look at the phone and back at him. It’s curious, the way his perfect brows furrow ever so slightly— like he has to process exactly what is going on. Hunk has to hold back his sigh of relief when the guy eventually reaches into his own pocket and takes out his phone too.

“Sure, uh,” he says as he stands. He’s just about as tall as Hunk, if not a tad bit shorter. And Hunk now notices the length of his hair—that long length that’s all the rage lately amongst baseball players as of late. Hunk knows the style well, though he can’t say he can rock it himself. This guy however, wears it well. Almost too well. He opens his own app and offers his phone to Hunk. “Do I, like, search your name or…”

“Right! Okay, sure, here,” Hunk happily stuffs his own phone away, grabbing the phone and ignores the short spark his fingers feel when he touches him by accident. He looks down at the screen, the home page displaying the name _Keith Kogane._ Not Sports Illustrated, but Keith.

He stifles the horrendous urge to click on the surprisingly colorful profile picture, but it’s easy enough to suppress; knowing he can creep later. Instead he goes to the search bar, types his own name, and sends a request.

“There, now you’ve _technically_ made a friend.”

“And you, a drug dealer,” Keith retorts with a sly grin, taking his phone back. It’s contagious; a smile of Hunk’s own spreads on his lips as he walks to the door that leads back into the house party.

“Thanks again for that, by the way. My headache is totally gone!” He pauses a moment and puts his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you around Keith.”

“Yeah, hope so.”

Hunk lingers on those words, hesitating again if only for a bit. There’s something else there, fluttering deep within Hunk’s ribcage. But he ignores it, saying one last goodbye as he makes his way back into the fray in search of poor, stuck Lance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Much later that night— long after Hunk drives Lance home, listening to his tale of woes of how he miraculously got his foot stuck when trying to reach the extra toilet paper above the mirror— Hunk plops onto his soft bed. He sighs, relaxing into the fluffy comforter. He closes his eyes, letting the excitement of the day seep out of him like leaking battery acid.

He finds himself thinking back to the game, of how awesome it felt to smash that ball high into the sky, over the back fence. It’s a feeling he never really gets used to, if he’s completely honest. It’s why he loves the sport so much. You have to work hard for any type of advancement. And when he finally crosses home plate, the physicality of stomping on that base brings an exhilaration that cannot be compared. Hunk breathes in deeply, smiling and sighing as he waits to drift off to sleep.

“WAIT!” he suddenly says out loud. In an almost panicked state, he slaps around his comforter for his phone in the dark and when he finds it, he quickly unlocks it and opens Facebook. The notification is waiting for him, that little red balloon in the top right corner. He moves quickly, pressing and accepting the friend request.

Earlier sleepiness aside, Hunk flips over on the bed, lying on his stomach as he immediately goes to Keith’s profile. He wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t use it much. Most of the posts on his wall are birthday wishes from years past and posts others have tagged him in. Hunk isn’t deterred though, and he opens the profile picture that’s already over a year old.

It’s an artsy photo, taken by someone else. Keith stands leaning against a metal bar, a fence of some sort, with a colorfully lit up bridge in the background bright and vibrant against the dark night sky. There’s an equally colorful city skyline in the background. Hunk presses the right arrow, flipping through the various profile pictures that mostly contain pictures of scenery rather than Keith himself until he’s back to the first one again. He’s in the middle of zooming in on Keith’s pensive face when he gets a text from Coach.

_COACH 12:25 am_

_It’s late but I know you’re all awake anyway so I want to say this before I forget. Next Friday is our joint practice day with Altea University’s team. See you tomorrow._

A separate text, one Hunk knew was coming, blips onto his phone and he opens it with a smile.

_LANCE PANTS 12:27 am_

_I think coach WANTS us to suffer. Does he have any idea how embarrassing it’s going to be practicing with the Lions?! I don’t want to practice pitching alongside my rival. He’ll learn all my secrets._

Hunk rolls his eyes, still smiling as he types his response. _So, now the new pitcher is your rival, huh? That was quick. What’s his name?_

_LANCE PANTS 12:30 am_

_Oh shut up lol You know what I mean. Practicing with a team inside our division is just weird. What if we play a practice game? WHAT IF WE LOSE??_

Hunk pauses at that suggestion, weighing it a little. _It’s just practice. We’ll give it our all though._ _And even if we lose, we’ll have an official game later for revenge!_

Apparently, it’s enough to calm Lance’s nerves as he sends a plethora of emojis as a response. Hunk laughs and flips over again in bed, lying on his back now and staring up at the poster thumb-tacked to his ceiling. He does wonder what Friday will bring, though. Coach brought up the idea of a joint practice before, but nobody had any idea who it was going to be with.

Altea University is the nearest D2 school to Garrison Community College, so it makes sense for Coach to choose it. The Lions have the best record in the division so far, and now with that new pitcher Pidge talked about…they could very easily go all the way to State. Hunk lets himself smile, a small shiver of excitement tickling his body at the thought of being able to practice hitting that 88 mph pitch.

He turns on his side, tapping Facebook again and opening the messenger app. He presses that yellow hand emoji and locks his phone again. He flips it to face down against his mattress and quickly buries his face into his pillow.

It isn’t long before his phone vibrates against the bed, and he grabs it.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=rrm9sh) _You and Keith Kogane waved at each other!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does one exactly flirt in this day and age?

Keith doesn’t expect anything like this to happen, especially not after mentally checking out of the whole party scene years ago. But to his surprise, that headache guy actually asks for _his_ contact information. He instantly checks his phone for a name seconds after he closed the door— scolding himself for not actually asking like a normal person. _Hunk Garrett._

The profile picture is a selfie; a big toothy grin that Keith assumes touches his eyes if they weren’t hidden behind mirrored lenses.

He walks home after that, not really seeing much reason to stay at a party he fully intends not to participate in. His backpack strap slips a little as he steps slowly down the sidewalk, gaze drifting up toward the star peppered sky.

“Yes, I _actually_ went,” Keith says as he opens the door, feeling Shiro’s presence in the kitchen. He closes the door behind him, locking it without looking back and kicks off his shoes. “And no it wasn’t fun.”

“Did you at least talk to people?” Shiro sits on a tall stool at the center island eating a bowl of cereal. He points his spoon accusatorially at Keith as he walks by and opens the fridge for something to snack on too. “You know, like, your _teammates?_ ”

“I talked to Allura,” Keith responds as he grabs an apple and heads to the pantry for some peanut butter. He hears Shiro laugh.

“She doesn’t count! You _walked_ there together. What about the others?”

Keith simply shrugs; knowing full well they all just went off and did their own thing at the party without him. It's why he had been alone in the garage in the first place. He doesn’t need to be best friends with his teammates. He does just fine the way things are. Obviously they don’t seem to be putting any extra effort in buddying up to him either. They expect one thing from him and that’s wins. The rest is just…superfluous. He grabs the peanut butter and decides he doesn’t want to talk anymore. He knows Shiro will just continue to pry—it’s both an endearment and annoyance. But Keith knows deep down, he just wants Keith to fit in; to fill the hole he knows Shiro feels he’s created in the team.

So, he offers this, “I did meet someone though. Nice guy. Cute.” He leaves the kitchen to eat his apple in peace in his room down the hall.

In the kitchen, Shiro sits with wide eyes. He marks this down as the first time he’s ever heard anything positive about someone other than himself from Keith.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Keith isn’t an avid texter, never has been. He doesn’t really _mind_ texting, of course. It makes communicating much simpler especially if he can do it in seven words or less. So, when his phone buzzes against the kitchen table for the fourth time in a row this particular morning, his eyes catch Shiro’s unwavering stare.

“What?” Keith asks flatly. Shiro raises his eyebrows but continues eating his scrambled eggs. “ _What?!_ ” Keith repeats with more emphasis. But alas, Shiro still doesn’t give in. He merely finishes his breakfast and steals some of Keith’s before knocking his shoulder playfully.

“Hurry and finish up, we gotta get to practice,” he says with a smile in his voice that Keith doesn’t care for at all. He narrows his eyes defensively at Shiro while he makes his exit.

When he’s clear of the kitchen, Keith finally lets himself smile. He takes his phone in one hand and stuffs his mouth with eggs and toast with the other. He opens the message app.

_Hunk Garrett 7:36 am_

_OH! also I had the weirdest dream about living in the amazon. There were snakes and I think the president was there?_

Keith laughs softly, a whisper of a sound, as he pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged on the chair. It has been only a short couple days since he met Hunk at the party, and their conversation via text has been going non-stop. Keith surprises himself with this. He didn’t know he had it in him to keep an interaction going for this long without messing it up or stopping it completely. It goes without saying that he’s definitely run into obstacles; like not knowing how to respond or having no idea what topic to introduce next. Somehow it doesn’t upset him as much as it would with someone else. He eventually finds something he wants to say, and he says it. He hasn’t explained this to Hunk, but he plans to; to let his new friend know just how important talking to him is steadily becoming.

But he knows he can be…intense. And he doesn’t want to scare Hunk, so he pumps the breaks on that for a bit.

He finishes his breakfast quickly, sending messages back and forth with Hunk all the while. By the time he’s ready, Shiro is already outside waiting for him in the car. He rolls down the window when Keith hops off the front porch, eyeing him curiously from behind sunglasses.

“Allura is going to be pissed we’re late, you know,” he warns, pushing his sunglasses up a little and pops the trunk for Keith’s bag. “She wants to get as much practice in with you as possible before mid-season.”

“I don’t throw as well as you,” Keith’s tired of having this conversation with him. It’s the same thing over and over. At least, Keith feels like it is. He closes the trunk and gets into the car on the passenger’s side, folding his arms across his chest. “She doesn’t need to do anything special. She can just catch my pitches. Simple as that.”

Keith can feel Shiro’s side eye without looking at him, and he refuses to look at all. He knows it’s a losing argument anyway, so he might as well just let Shiro have the last word. Instead of any of that, however, Shiro puts the car in reverse and gets them on their way toward practice. The radio fills the silence and Keith slowly sinks lower into the seat, gaze steadfast on the blurring images zipping by the window.

“I think you’d be surprised,” Shiro finally speaks just as they pull into the parking lot. “Someday you’re going to find something that sparks competition. And you’ll want to practice more and get stronger for yourself and the team.”

Keith looks at him, eyebrow quirked. “What does that have to do with…” he doesn’t finish and Shiro slips out of the car. The team is already out on the field, Coach standing with his legs far apart and his fists on his hips in an outlandish pose. He’s already rambling, from what Keith can tell as he grabs his bag from the trunk, and he sighs.

“About time you showed up,” Allura has all her gear on and she stands near the bullpen; a cross look set on her face. Shiro passes her with an apologetic smile, grabs his clipboard, and jogs out to the field to assist their coach. There’s a short pause, and Keith notices the soft, pained expression that passes across her face before she turns her frustration back on, squaring her shoulders toward Keith. “Do you know how many pitches we already could’ve had in if you’d bothered to show up on time?”

Keith pulls his cap out of his back pocket, holding it by the flat bill and flicking it a few times to unfold, and tugs it onto his head. He grabs his mitt too, keeping his gaze away from hers. “Well, I’m here now so let’s get going,” he says softly. He knows what Allura thinks of him, and he knows it’s not good. She and Shiro have been a battery since little league, and for Keith to show up after playing abroad for three years…well, he just understands her frustrations. Keith isn’t dense, he knows the team compares him to Shiro— despite Shiro’s adamant say otherwise— and when they measure him up, he comes up lacking. He doesn’t need to be as good as Shiro, he doesn’t want to be. At least that's what he's decided to tell himself. He’s fine with being alone on that mound; as long as he can get his team wins.

While these thoughts clog his mind, he suddenly feels a presence next to him, and his shoulder and arm are grabbed and tugged gently. His eyes widen, mind popping out of his reverie. “What are you doing?” he asks, unable to hide the shock in his tone.

“Helping you stretch,” Allura states simply and adjusts her grip, bending his arm at the elbow and offering some resistance. Keith follows suit, body moving automatically at the familiar exercise but still entirely unclear as to what's happening. “You may be late, but I’m not going to risk you getting injured.”

It clicks then. “Ah,” Keith nods curtly and then there’s silence between them. They finish up the partner exercises and Allura stands off to the side to let Keith finish stretching on his own. Out on the field, Coach yells excitable nonsense followed by Shiro’s translation and the team starts another drill. Keith glances sideways at Allura.

_She must blame herself,_ he thinks while bending over to touch his toes. _She shouldn’t._

What happened to Shiro was an accident, anyone can see that. But Keith can see a fire behind his catcher’s bright eyes that rings familiar. He knows that guilt, that nagging anxiety constantly spewing believable lies. He breathes in, heart suddenly beating a bit faster, as he prepares to offer something. He can try this much at least.

“He’s not mad, you know, about what happened.” He clears his throat and straightens up. Slipping his mitt on and punching his fist into it a couple times, he keeps his gaze fallen. “Shiro’s happy doing stats. He’s always been a giant nerd anyway.” Keith feels his face begin to burn with a blush, and as embarrassing as it is to converse like this…he doesn’t find it as difficult as it usually is. His heart may be thudding hard in his rib cage, but overall he feels fine. It’s a new experience to say the least.

“O-oh,” Allura’s voice finally finds its way out and Keith risks looking at her. She seems happy; at least happier than before. Keith feels goosebumps rise on his arms. Allura lifts her hand to her hat, turning it around, and puts her helmet on and tugs her facemask down. “Th-thank you, Keith. But we should, uh, probably get started.”

“Right.”

 The moment passes as quickly as it comes and the two let the matter hang in the air. They move into position, far enough to do some warm-up catch before Keith finally gets to practice pitching. Neither admits it, but practice between them goes just a little bit smoother than normal.

 

* * *

 

 

Practice runs long and instead of being able to reward himself with video games and a nap, Keith is still stuck at the school waiting for Shiro to finish his physical therapy with the trainer. He sits on a bench just outside the field house's front doors, tugging at his belt loops boredly. Before long, Keith’s phone buzzes in his bag. He fishes for it and immediately smiles when he sees Hunk’s name on the notification.

_Hunk Garrett 1:15 PM_

_Please reply this is a matter of life and death. Does pineapple belong on pizza?_

Keith lets himself laugh out loud, shaking his head at what has become routine at this point. Hunk, as much as he may have appeared imposing, is just as much of a dork as Keith is. Though, of course Keith does a much better job at hiding it…usually. He adjusts his position on the bench and types a response.

_Keith Kogane 1:15 PM_

_Pizza is pizza is pizza_

_Hunk Garrett 1:16 PM_

_THANK YOU!!!_

This sparks a new, lighthearted conversation that helps pass the time. He doesn’t fight the smile that Hunk brings to his face, and he doesn’t want to. They chat back and forth about nothing and its nice; a break in the monotony. Keith now knows Hunk is a student at Garrison, a school not too far from his own. He also knows he’s undecided on a major, just like himself. More and more little details like this slip into their conversation as time goes on. Keith doesn’t even notice Shiro standing in front of him.

“You do realize you absolutely have to tell me what’s going on, right?” Shiro announces this with a cheeky grin, arm hanging in a sling across his chest. “I’ve never seen you this smiley. It’s kinda weird. _Nice_ but weird.”

Keith looks up, blushing and ready to defend himself from any questions, but stops short. He stands up quickly, eyes widening. “What happened?!”

“Nothing bad!” Shiro is quick to respond, lifting his good hand up to placate Keith. “Just overworked it a bit.”

“A bit?” Keith scoffs.  “Shiro, your arm is in a _sling._ ”

“Well…yeah, okay good point. But it’s my own fault. I got too aggressive.” Shiro reaches into his pack pocket and pulls out his keys, tossing them to Keith. “Which means you’re driving.”

Keith catches the keys easily enough and opens his mouth to protest how nonchalant Shiro is being about his re-injury, but he’s cut off once again.

“So, why _are_ you Mr. Giddy all of a sudden?” Shiro asks with a tone bordering on teasing, but not quite. For now it’s genuine curiosity. He leads the way back to their car and Keith follows him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Keith is on the defense again. He can never be too careful with his cousin; he’s been known to _meddle._ Last time he told Shiro anything about a crush was in the fourth grade, and if memory serves, it hadn’t been the wisest choice. Keith suddenly feels himself warm. A crush. Is that what Hunk is? He hasn’t known him for very long, but he’s nice and easy to talk to. Keith feels lucky that it had been Hunk to come into the garage that night, rather than someone…well, someone not Hunk.

“You’re blushing,” Shiro is definitely teasing now as he grins at Keith across the top of the car, waiting for it to be unlocked. “Now it's officially the law that you have to tell me everything.”

“It’s nothing!” Keith says this but it feels wrong. It isn’t nothing. Hunk isn’t nothing. Not to him. He hasn't thought about it much but, it's true. He can feel a difference with Hunk. “It’s…he’s just a friend.”

They get into the car together and make their way home, Shiro relentlessly prodding for details the entire way. Keith gives in, if only a little bit, and sighs dejectedly when they inevitably come to the next question.

“So, are you going to invite him over?”

“Why would I do that?” Then Shiro looks at him. Really _looks at him._ Keith’s lips tighten into a line and he glances hesitantly over. “What?”

“Why are you always running away?”

It isn’t the question Keith expects. He blinks hard, glancing back and forth from Shiro and the road before he decides that focusing on the road is the safer option. He doesn’t reply; he doesn’t know how. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, mouth set in a small frown as Shiro’s words sink in like melting ice.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith isn’t upset with Shiro, but he doesn’t let on that he isn’t either. Shiro and Keith’s relationship has always been like this—a sort of push and pull. Keith is grateful to have Shiro, he’s always been a source of stability. But sometimes, things like this remind Keith just how different they really can be. Shiro simply has confidence that Keith lacks. It’s a sobering reminder that try as he might, Keith isn’t actually his brother. He isn’t a Shirogane. It’s something he’s accepted many years ago, but doesn’t seem to get any easier to live with. He doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be. He has to keep repeating it to himself until he believes it. He doesn’t want to pitch like Shiro. He doesn’t want to—

They get home with plenty of time before dinner, so Keith calls the shower first. He rushes past Auntie, dodging her questions about practice, and claims the bathroom. Shiro walks in after him, frowning at his mom who returns the look.

When the door is closed, Keith braces himself against it, letting himself slide down the soft wood until his bottom hits the tiled floor. He sits there for a while, simply soaking in his own thoughts. He gets like this sometimes, like a switch flips and he just needs to shut down for a while. Shiro knows it well; witnessed it enough times to understand it’s not personal.

That doesn’t stop him from knocking on the bathroom door. Likely sent upstairs by his own worry and by mother's demand.

“I’m fine." Keith lifts his head from resting on his knees that he has tucked against his chest.

“I know,” Shiro responds through the door. “I’m sorry about what I said in the car. That was…unfair of me. I was just excited and thought that—“

“Shiro, _really_ , it’s fine. I just...want to be alone, alright?”

There’s a pause between them, neither able to see the other but both know exactly what the other needs. “Okay,” Shiro’s voice is soft again, understanding. Keith frowns when he hears him step away, down the hallway to give Keith the space he requested.

But Keith doesn’t want to be alone, not really. He just knows Shiro’s company is not the company he needs. He stands up again, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. He opens the app, types a message, and sends it before giving his mind a chance to doubt. He doesn’t wait for a reply. He quickly undresses, leaving his clothes in a pile, and steps into the shower. He turns it on, gasping at the cold shock before turning the knob all the way hot. Then, he stands there in the shower for quite some time, letting the hot water soothe his tense muscles, turning the pale skin of his stomach and thighs a blotchy pink. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of water, a white noise that drowns out all others. His hands rest against the cold tile, slipping on the quickly accumulating condensation as he leans his weight against it.

He doesn’t keep track of how long he’s in there, but he knows that when the water is still too cold, no matter how far he twists the knob, it’s been long enough. He sighs and turns off the water, standing in the steamy shower for just a little longer before stepping out. He grabs a towel, lifting it to his head to dry his hair enough for the annoying droplets to stop.

His phone’s lit-up screen catches his eye and his stomach does a small flip. He dries his hands a little more on the towel before hanging it around his neck and shoulders, and he grabs the phone.

_Hunk Garrett 3:04 PM_

_Sure! That’d be fun! I’m just getting out of practice now so I gotta go home and shower and then we can totally call!_

Keith stares down at his phone with many questions beginning to form. For one, why hadn’t he asked to call sooner if it was that easy?! Two, Keith wonders what “practice” Hunk is referring to. He doesn’t ask that however, and instead he glances at himself in the small vignette of non-foggy mirror. His hair is still damp and it falls nicely, just landing on his shoulders with his bangs swooping elegantly over his eyes. He smiles a little at himself, lifting his phone and snapping a photo or two. By the time he's dressed and brushing his still damp hair, his phone buzzes against the countertop.

_Hunk Garrett 3:15 PM_

_ <attachment> Look at this cool dog that ran onto the field today!!_

Keith smiles at the message, opening the image to see Hunk posing happily with some sort of dark-fur mutt. He’s wearing a baseball uniform which immediately gains Keith’s attention despite the whole cute dog situation. His heart flutters a little at the prospect that he and Hunk share this commonality too. Smile still present, he leans against the counter and begins to type a response. Either it’s the pruney state of his fingers or the lingering steam in the air, but when his thumbs tap quickly at the screen, he suddenly notices the image button highlight. His fingers move too fast and the app is too lagged to stop it. He watches in horror as the image suddenly sends, faded out as that little circle loads and then blips to life signaling a successful upload.

He stares down at his phone, eyes vacant as his mirror pic stares back.

_Read at 3:16 PM_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never know if I'm moving things too quickly or awkwardly so then I put something that's ABSOLUTELY awkward in there to make it feel natural.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How fast is too fast?

Hunk is just walking into his house when his phone vibrates. Being as excited as he is to see what Keith has to say about the dog, his brain doesn’t quite register exactly what he sees. He physically stops, frozen in the foyer as his younger niece and nephew who are visiting sprint to greet him.

Keith’s sultry gaze ignites a burst of warmth throughout his body as he stares, instantly imagining what’s behind that blur of steamed mirror. His conscious is quickly reeled back, however, as his nephew collides with him in a giant bear hug. He panics— if only for a moment— and quickly locks his screen to protect the precious innocence of youth.

“How was practice?” his mother asks as she pops her head into the hallway from her office.

Hunk hugs his niece and nephew, albeit a bit distractedly, and answers, “Oh, fine just fine! I uh, I’m gonna go take a shower real quick. Go ahead and start dinner without me!”

Much to the protest of his tiny family members, Hunk runs past his confused mother, up the stairs, and hurriedly locks himself in his bathroom. He drops his bag on the floor and unlocks his phone again to see that, sure enough, the image had not been a sun poisoning induced hallucination.

“Holy crap,” he says a bit out of breath. He touches the image, letting it expand to the entirety of his phone screen. He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until a separate text from his team’s group chat alerts him back to reality. He swallows heavily, going back to the message to type a response to Keith’s…presentation. Unsurprisingly, he can’t think of anything. He doesn’t normally go for this type of thing; unsolicited shirtless pictures. But for some unknown reason he doesn’t mind.

That’s a lie.

He _knows_ the reason. And the reason is Keith is insanely hot. Hunk rescinds his previous dismissal of Sports Illustrated model. Keith Sports Illustrated Kogane. And Keith can definitely pose, if the hooded gaze and sexy parted lips are any indication. The condensation on the mirror leaves most of his, what Hunk assumes, naked body obscured. This doesn’t take away anything from the overall image, though. It’s like a mystery and Hunk suddenly very much wants to solve it.

However, Hunk groans; not really knowing how the heck he’s supposed to process all of it. Is Keith _suggesting_ something? And it's one hell of a suggestion. Is this what he meant when he said he wants to have a phone call? Is Hunk a fool for wanting to save it as his lock screen? He has to pull himself away from this image. He needs to do…well, something! Anything. He’ll take a shower, recollect himself, and offer a proper response—whatever that entails.

Being a man of his word, Hunk goes forth with his shower plan, but the guilt of what he’d _done_ in there haunts him a bit, forcing him to shamefully avoid his phone for a little while longer. He doesn’t forgive himself until he’s back in his room, sitting on his bed blow drying his hair and his phone buzzes again.

_Keith Kogane 4:23 PM_

_Sorry. It won’t happen again._

“No, no, no.” Hunk falls backward onto his bed, groaning yet again as he realizes he’s probably made Keith uncomfortable by not saying anything. Which is entirely fair. Hunk would feel the same way if someone didn’t respond right away to something like that. He lies there for a moment or two, mulling over his options as he clicks his dryer on and off. He listens to it whir to life then cut out over and over. It’s not as if he feels accosted by the image, nor does he feel like he’s been violated in anyway. It’s just…new. Unexpected, maybe, but not unwanted or unappreciated.

With a sudden new resolve, Hunk puts down the hair dryer and grabs his phone. He pinches a few strands of his bangs, adjusting them to fall just right, and scoots a little upward on his bed. His face is already feeling warm as he opens the front-facing camera. His inexperienced deer-in-the-headlights look is impossible to miss and he squishes his own cheeks, trying to psyche himself up a little bit. After a few deep breaths, he looks into the camera, making sure to flex as much as possible without making it obvious, and snaps the photo.

He opens the chat with Keith and sends it. He drops his phone quickly, as if he’d found a live snake on it, and turns away blushing and hugging his pillow. The silence that fills the next five minutes is excruciating. Hunk soaks in regret and almost debates deleting Keith from Facebook altogether when his phone finally buzzes again. His heart leaps; tightening in his chest until it feels full to bursting.

_Keith Kogane 4:35 PM_

_Woah._

_Keith Kogane 4:35 PM_

_Damn, I would’ve tried harder if I knew you had perfected the technique._

Hunk laughs, explosive but short; like he can’t really believe what he’s reading.

_Hunk Garrett 4:36 PM_

_Are you kidding me?? Your photo was like artistic and stuff! Mine cant even compare_

_Keith Kogane 4:36 PM_

_Looks like we’ll have to agree to disagree ;)_

Hunk stares down at his phone, blinking slowly as the little mouse in his head runs on that squeaky wheel. A winky face. That’s a good sign. He can do this—this, whatever this is. Flirting? Dance with death?

He makes himself comfortable, letting his pillow rest in his lap as he continues typing away with Keith. They don’t end up calling that night, but their conversation through text is lengthy and immediate. Neither has any intention of keeping the other waiting for replies. Hunk doesn’t even realize he’s missed dinner entirely until his mother is knocking softly on his door.

“Honey, aren’t you going to eat something?” she says tentatively, worry scrunching her features in a way only mothers are capable of doing. “It’s already 8:00.”

Hunk looks up from his phone, smile wavering a bit. “Is it? Sorry, Mom! I was just…uh…” He glances at the phone and then his mom again, subtle panic starting to rise again. It’s not really a good idea to tell one Mrs. Garrett about a cute guy. She’ll be talking about it at her poker night with her friends in no time. That’s the last thing Hunk needs; baseball moms talking about his love life.

“Don’t worry about it,” thankfully she lifts her hand to stop him. She leans against the door frame, crossing her arms as she smiles at her son. “You’ve been so busy lately. I worry your coach is pushing you too hard sometimes. You probably don’t need the extra stress of keeping your niece and nephew entertained.” She chuckles a little now, glancing around Hunk’s room and pausing on the phone in his hands. She turns to leave, a knowing look already written on her features which causes Hunk to sigh. “I have a plate for you in the fridge. Just pop it in the microwave whenever. Love you, Hunk.”

“Thanks, mom,” Hunk says as she closes the door. He looks back down at his phone, still a little surprised how much he and Keith have talked. A smidgen of something unfamiliar flutters within him. He can’t name it exactly, but he likes the feeling. He stays up rather late that night, texting back and forth through Facebook before finally gaining the nerve to ask for Keith’s _actual_ number.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Practice the next day goes by excruciatingly slow. Everyone seems to be on edge, for one reason or another. Hunk guesses a majority of it is because tomorrow’s the big day; the day of the joint practice with Altea University. Everyone’s excited if not a little nervous. It isn’t every day you get to practice alongside a competing team; let alone the team leading the division. At length, tensions are high.

Hunk is still beaming from last night, a smile glued to his face that he just can’t seem to shake. A few of his teammates have commented on his overly chipper mood, but it isn’t as if Hunk being smiley is something _out_ of the ordinary. So, they let him off the hook after just one or two jokes. Hunk now takes a few practice swings off to the side, loosening up his shoulders before fielding practice. Ever since Coach lost sight in his left eye, he's entrusted him with the batter’s role which Hunk more or less has gotten used to. At first, he was so nervous he could barely control where he hit the ball. But now it’s second nature. He takes a step toward home, grabbing a ball from the pile on the dirt.

“Alright, look alive!” he yells before tossing the ball up and batting it hard toward the infield. They continue with the drill for a while; Hunk’s expert precision allows for a good variety of balls to be fielded. It’s a drill Coach loves to drag on, much to the team’s dismay. And by the end of it, the infield is covered with tan dust and the outfield can barely tell where the grass stains end and the fabric begins.

By the time cool down stretches finally occur Hunk is ready to munch on a good burger at the town diner and then waste the rest of his afternoon. He hears his phone buzz in his bag and he smiles as he quickly types a text back to Keith—their conversation having rolled into today as well. He puts his phone away and leans over to take off his cleats when Lance saunters over.

“My dearest, bestest, handsomest pal,” Lance declares and Hunk looks up at him incredulously. Lance puts a foot up on the bench, leaning over in an overly dramatic pose he’s so well-known for. “What say you to a soiree?”

Hunk sighs, “I don’t want to go to another party, Lance.” Hunk says this but can’t deny the small prickle of curiosity. Would going to another party bring another chance meeting with a certain, handsome mirror-selfie man? He shakes away the thought while Lance scoffs.

“No. No parties! Just us, a couple of true crime documentaries,” he pauses and grins wide like a scheming cat. “And your world famous chili hot dogs that I’ve been craving for almost a month now please Hunk I beg of you.” He suddenly drops his foot from the bench and kneels in front of Hunk. He places his hands together, prayer style, and lowers his head like a humble knight before a king. And a king Hunk is; as far as chilidogs go.

“Did I hear hot dogs?” Pidge chimes in just as she pops her head between them both. “I love hot dogs.”

“Chilidogs to be exact,” Lance interjects before Hunk can say anything. “Hunk has this way of making the beans just…” He stands and kisses his fingertips, chef-style.

“The key is bacon,” Hunk can’t help but smile now as his two friends crowd him with wide, hopeful eyes. He gives them a solid look and says, “Lots and _lots_ of bacon.”

And thus are his plans for the evening; a bit different than Hunk originally intended, but still good. They cram into Lance’s junk-filled car (mostly filled with old baseball magazines and trial skin care products) and get the necessary supplies from the small grocer in town. At one point Lance lifts Pidge into the cart and she accepts her fate, pointing them down different aisles like a wayfinding captain. The old woman behind the deli counter gives them a stern glare as they zoom by with Lance lifting himself up onto the cart as well (and with Hunk reluctantly following behind). But despite their goofing around, they manage get enough junk food to last a fortnight, Lance paying for most of it, and they make their way to Lance’s place.

Pidge and Lance quickly fall into their ongoing battle in Smash Bros. There’s a hastily drawn scoreboard on the back of Lance’s psychology homework which is now tacked onto the wall. Tallies are drawn under their names to designate winning rounds. As their banter ensues, Hunk rolls his eyes and begins the chili. It’s going to take a while, so they’re going to be eating later than usual, and he tells them as such. Neither seems to take issue with it; the current brawl soaking up most of their attention.

Hunk pulls up a stool near the stove, wanting to keep an eye on the boiling pot just in case. He can see the TV well enough from where he’s at anyway—that’s what he loves most about Lance’s finished basement. It’s like a mini apartment in itself. It’s even got a small, individual bedroom. He’s slept in the bed many a time. He often wonders if Lance spends more time down here than with family, but quickly dismisses the thought—Lance enjoys his family too much to do that. It _is_ convenient for hang outs like this though; which is why Lance’s place has ceremoniously become their trio's treehouse, so to speak. The afternoon rolls into evening and the chili is finished. He grills the hot dogs on a pan, refusing to boil them like a savage, and begins to serve his friends.

They’re all happily gorging on their meal when Hunk suddenly hears his phone vibrate against the countertop; then again, and again.

Oh, it’s ringing!

He reaches over, glances down at the caller ID, and immediately feels his face begin to warm. _Why is he calling now!?_ he thinks; not out of anger but of mere embarrassment. Lance has ears like a bat, and Hunk can already see his curious eyes glancing his way as Hunk quickly shoves the last bit of hot dog in his mouth and unlocks the phone. He stands and heads over to the other side of the basement for privacy.

“Hi,” he swallows his food, and then holds his breath in an attempt to make it sound like he isn’t already panting from nerves. It doesn’t help much.

“Hey,” Keith says softly. Keith’s voice. It’s _Keith’s_ voice. It’s just as he remembers it from the party—distant but gentle, with just enough rasp to it to make Hunk swoon. “Sorry, I just…”

“No, it’s cool! What’s, uh, what’s up?”

“We were supposed to call yesterday but I guess we got distracted, huh?”

“You could say that, yeah.”

Hunk hears Keith’s laugh, quick and airy and he can picture the small smile on his lips. His chest tightens in the best way and he feels his body become light, like he’ll float away if he doesn’t ground himself.

“I…” Keith begins again but it trails off, mumbling something Hunk can’t quite catch.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah, I just…um, wanted to hear your voice,” Keith says this so smoothly, so softly, that Hunk is scarcely sure he hears him correctly. But it’s not another trick of the mind, much like the mirror photo hadn’t been either, and Hunk’s stomach does acrobatics he _knows_ it’s not designed to do.

“Oh,” Hunk eloquently responds. He’s quick for the save though. “That’s awesome!”

Nailed it.

Keith huffs out another laugh and it sounds like he’s trying to be quiet. Hunk imagines him sitting cross legged on a couch, the dusk breaking through the window just enough to illuminate his figure. Hunk remembers him well; he had studied Keith enough during their brief conversation at the party. Can you blame him?

“Are you alone right now?” Keith asks, and his voice is deeper now, hesitant, and just touch of hopeful that it has Hunk’s hands twitching. It isn’t a tone he’s prepared for, and it catches Hunk off guard. Before he can even attempt stumbling toward an answer, Pidge’s laughter erupts in the quiet. “Ah, y—”

“Friends!” Hunk blurts suddenly and he feels like he has to clarify. “Just—just friends.”

“Oh,” Keith’s voice trails away again. “That’s good. I won’t keep you, then.”

Hunk doesn’t like that. He’d stay on the phone if Keith asked. He’d stay in this corner of the basement next to the water softener for as long as Keith wanted. But he doesn’t say as much. Instead, he swallows heavily, cottonmouth plaguing any smoothness he could hope to achieve. “But! I-I can call you later? Tonight? If that’s, y’know, cool or whatever.”

A third laugh. Hunk wants to memorize the sound. He likes hearing it.

“That sounds great,” Keith says. “See ya.”

“Bye!”

“Hunk?”

“Yes?”

“Any time is fine. I stay up pretty late.”

“Oh,” Hunk can feel even his ears warm. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Bye!” Hunk hangs up before he can lose any more face. He stares at his phone for a moment before finally tapping that red circle to disconnect the call. His heart thuds rapidly in his chest, threatening to burst out of his rib cage. He feels out of breath and it’s all he can do not to just fall to the ground on his knees. He has more pride that that, however, and makes his way back to Pidge and Lance who are on their fourth and third chilidogs, respectively.

“Soo,” Lance leads and Hunk already knows his face is giving too much away. There’s no way he can lie his way out of this. He’s very red. “Who was _that?”_

“Just someone I’ve been talking to lately,” Hunk explains as coolly as he can despite the growing heat on his cheeks. “I met him at the party last week.”

“Do you like him?” Pidge asks with a mouthful of sweet pickles.

“Uhh, maybe?” Hunk can’t look either of them in the eyes.

“Who cares about that!” Lance interjects, pointing a crinkly fry at Hunk. “Who is this guy exactly? Is he even worthy of your attention?!”

Hunk laughs, “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not—”

“No, no, we don’t,” Lance interrupts again while taking a prominent bite of the fry. “You are _too_ good to be so easy going about who gets to date you.”

Hunk rolls his eyes, but appreciates the confidence boost nonetheless. Lance and he have been friends for as long as he can remember. It’s only logical that Lance can pinpoint his insecurities without as much as a hint. Hunk is notorious for holding himself at too low a level, and Lance has always been there to hoist him back up. And truthfully, he’s already had passing thoughts that dissuade him from pursuing Keith despite Keith’s obvious show of interest.

The mirror pic is saved into his photos on his phone which feels like its burning hot in his hand. He has to be careful lest either of them pick up on this little secret. Not only does Hunk have a tendency to put himself down, but he also has an extremely infamous record of outing himself—in every sense of the word. He tells Lance and Pidge a lot of things, but this little tidbit he’d like to keep to himself. If not for his own sake, then for Keith’s dignity.

“Wait, so _are_ you gonna date him?!” Pidge pulls Hunk from his reverie.

“What?! I d—I don’t know! Don’t ask me things like that. I just met him.”

“But he _called_ you,” Lance chides. “That doesn’t just happen nowadays.”

“Can we please talk about something else?!” Hunk feels like his face could start a fire at this point. Luckily his friends relent in their interrogation, but not without making Hunk promise to give them details as soon as anything develops. Hunk sinks in the couch, mindlessly munching on some Doritos as Pidge and Lance continue their Smash battle once again. He isn’t sure of anything at this point other than he’s really looking forward to that call tonight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lance is kind enough to drop both Pidge and Hunk off at their houses—but mostly it’s just an excuse for him to be able to drive recklessly while blasting music. Neither can blame him, it _is_ fun to do. Hunk opens the front door quietly, his mother having kept it unlocked for his return.

It’s late, later than he originally intended. Hanging out with Lance and Pidge always tends to go that way. When the three of them get going, it’s hard to say goodbye. Mostly because they all enjoy doing absolutely nothing together. But now, Hunk worriedly looks at the time on his phone. He hasn’t texted Keith for a while and he wonders if they shouldn’t call.

_Any time is fine._

Keith’s voice echoes in his mind like a siren’s call. Ignoring the small flutter of his heart that leaves him breathless, he unties his shoes and quickly heads up the stairs. He still technically hasn’t taken a shower after practice, but there are worse things than going to bed stinky, right? Hunk agrees with himself and closes the door to his dark bedroom, only switching on a small desk lamp next to his drawing board.

_Hunk Garrett 12:06 AM_

            _Hey sorry can we still call?_

Without much hope, Hunk tosses his phone on the bed, takes off his shirt, and switches it for a fresh, lighter one to sleep in. He’s draping his pants over the back of his desk chair by the time his phone lights up again.

Keith Kogane 12:15 AM

            _I’d like that._

Hunk feels his heart jump again, nerves prickling his skin as he climbs onto the bed, plugging his earbuds into his phone like he does every night. He stares at the message; considering, debating, worrying. All things he definitely shouldn’t be doing and should just press the call button. The screen shifting to black with Keith’s caller ID illuminating the dark startles Hunk, but he’s quick to answer it after just one ring.

“Hi!” _Ouch, too high tone it down, Garrett,_  Hunk thinks.

“Hey,” Keith’s voice is deliciously rich; soft and slow almost like he’s fighting the heavy fog of sleep. “How are you?”

“Please tell me I didn’t wake you,” Hunk smiles at the image his mind produces.

“I had nothing better to do, so I guess I fell asleep. I don’t mind if it’s you though. I want to talk to you.”

“Me too,” Hunk says eloquently. “Uh, but like, about you. I want to talk to you too. That’s what I mean.”

Keith laughs again, less like the usual airy huffs and more like an actual laugh. It’s magic to Hunk; better than any of that soft, 80s inspired music that drifts him to sleep every night.

“I like talking to you,” Hunk continues the riveting conversation when Keith doesn’t. He hears Keith sigh softly and it sends shivers down his spine, goosebumps rising on his forearms. “You’re a nice guy.”

“Am I?” Keith finally speaks again, low and quiet, and with a tone that does much more than give Hunk shivers. “Do you know that for a fact?”

“Well no, I guess not, but I can just tell. You helped a complete stranger with a headache, that’s a sign of a Good Samaritan.”

“You’re just lucky I have muscle aches all the time or else you would’ve been out of luck.”

“Oh! So _that’s_ why you had that on you.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told you at the party,” Keith is laughing again and Hunk hears him shift a little, the soft swishing of bed sheets catching like static in the receiver.

“I might have zoned out a little when you were speaking.”

“You do that often?”

“No, no, you’re just…” Hunk pauses, heart clenching and cottonmouth plaguing him again. Is he really about to do this? It’s a big chance; a risk.

“Just?” Keith leads.

“You’re really hot. Gorgeous. And it’s distracting.”

“I think you’re referring to yourself,” Keith is quick on the comeback and it has Hunk almost seeing stars. He shifts now too, straightening his legs and sitting up more in the bed. “I almost couldn’t believe it when you asked for my Facebook.”

“Are you kidding? You—you’re like a,” is Hunk really going to do this to? Well, he’s past the point of no return as it is. He looks down between his legs, both impressed and ashamed at what he sees and how fast it appeared. “A Sports Illustrated model!”

“You’re the model,” Keith once again quick on the response. Hunk had no idea he was so eloquent like this; so well trained in the art of flirting. He should've known better now that he remembers that winky face. Well, it’s appreciated to say the least. He’s able to carry Hunk along for the ride. “I look at your picture a lot.”

That. Now _that_ causes Hunk’s brain to stutter a little. He swallows the pool of saliva collecting in his mouth. “You, uh, kept it?”

“I haven’t shown anyone, if you’re worried about that,” Keith says softly, voice a low register again. And Hunk hears Keith shift once more, breath coming out in a deep sigh close against the phone. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No, it’s…it’s okay,” Hunk’s hand rests atop his thigh, limp and useless, but his fingers twitch in subconscious desire. “I kept yours too.”

“What do you do when you look at it?" Hunk swears he hears Keith gasp and his voice suddenly sounds tense, tone tightening just a bit higher.

“What do I do?” Then the whimpering noise of affirmation that Hunk hears through the receiver forces his eyes shut, his mind’s theater taking control. “I don’t do anything…but I think about things.”

“Tell me.”

“I think about your hair, it’s so shiny and looks so soft. I want to touch it. Your bangs always fall so perfectly over your eyebrows—which by the way are amazing.”

“My cousin does them for me,” Keith says this totally normal, not in any way sexy sentence with a voice that should be _illegal_. The heat between Hunk’s legs only strengthens, cock twitching in interest as his mind’s theater displays Keith for him. He sees Keith lying there on black, silk sheets, fingers ghosting his own torso. “He’s good at it.”

“I’m good at things too,” Hunk leads the conversation again. His hand moves now, coming between his thighs and pressing against the fabric of his boxers. The pressure feels nice, and he can feel the small wet spot on his palm as he gropes himself in slow, languid movements. His breath catches a little, giving himself and probably actions away, but somehow Hunk isn’t worried about it. “G-good at lots of things.”

“Are you good at following directions?” Keith’s voice seeps from those earbuds, trickling into Hunk’s ears like honey. It sends Hunk to another realm of existence. He doesn’t know when the conversation shifted, and he couldn’t care less.

“Yes.”

“Are you a good liar?”

“No.”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Y-yes,” Hunk breathes this answer, drawing it out as his hand grips his cock through the fabric. He’s embarrassed but it’s too good to stop. “You are too, right?”

He hears Keith laugh again—always laughing, always finding Hunk’s little quirks amusing. It’s nice. Hunk likes it. He likes that he can make someone feel giddy like that. “I have a confession,” Keith whispers now and Hunk almost cums in his boxers when he hears the small gasp leading into a moan. “I wasn’t sleeping when you called.”

Hunk swallows heavily, gripping himself more tightly. “ _Hhholy_ shit.”

“I didn’t mean for it to move this fast,” Keith’s demeanor quickly slips. The façade is safe to drop at this point. “H-haa, I don’t like you just for your looks, you know.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I like it. I like you.”

“Me too,” Keith’s voice trails off again, morphing into another soft noise that officially is too much for Hunk to handle and he tugs down his boxers, exposing himself to the cool air. He relishes in Keith’s heavy breathing; moans escaping on exhaled breaths for a little while. “Hunk?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep talking.”

“Is that one of your aforementioned ‘directions’?” Hunk grins as he slowly begins to move his hand, thumb pressing to the tip.

“Yes.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The pancake and smiley eggs and bacon breakfast stares back up at Hunk like some kind of judgmental omen. There's nothing inherently wrong about it. It's a normal breakfast, spiced up for the sake of his visiting family. Hunk has no reason to be embarrassed. It isn’t as if he opened his bedroom door in the morning screaming “Guess what I diiiiid!?” So, it’s safe to assume his mother is none the wiser. It’s not like its anything shameful, of course.

But, you know, there’s something about waking up a few hours later and remembering that your bedroom is right across from your niece and nephew sleeping in the guest room. It’s sobering to say the least.

“Big day today, right hon?” Hunk’s mother refills his orange juice with his hand still gripped around the glass. She ruffles his hair proudly. “How exciting! You must be so eager to show Altea’s pitcher what’s what!”

Hunk clicks his tongue, groaning at his mother’s praise. “Aw, Ma it’s not like that. I’m just ready to have fun.”

"I wanna see you play!!" his niece bounces in her chair, gripping the fork and knife like a viking. And Hunk couldn't feel more proud.

"You're gonna hit like a thousand home runs!" his nephew chimes in just as eagerly, bacon grease coating his fingers.

“Well, you never know! They might be ready to fight off the get-go. Just be prepared, is all I’m saying.” Hunk's mother puts the pitcher of juice down and grips Hunk’s biceps, squeezing them strongly. “Show them what these guns are made of!”

The children cheer loudly and Hunk groans.

“ _Mom!!_ ”

 

* * *

 

 

Having helped his mom clean up breakfast, Hunk winds up being a few minutes late to practice. He knows he’ll hear it from Coach at a later time, but he knows he's safe for now since its— as his mother put it— the Big Day. He’s more focused on Lance sprinting out past the dugout to meet him halfway, slowing down and turning to walk back with Hunk.

“It’s so _weird,”_ he says in a stage whisper. “They showed up way before us. They were already done stretching when I got here.”

“There’s nothing weird about a team warming-up, Lance,” Hunk snorts, chuffed by his friend’s excitability.

“But it just _feels_ weird, man,” Lance emphasizes. “That damn pitcher is even out on the mound already. He and his catcher, who’s gorgeous by the way, just waltzed on over there without warming up in the bullpen! Pidge hadn’t even gotten her gear on yet! Now she's stalking around in a _mood."_

"Isn't it your job to cheer her up then? Go do your pitcherly duties."

"I will, I will! But dude, it’s like a scene in those movies where two gangs show up in the same bar and someone is just waiting for the pin to drop.”

“Can it be a musical version of that so we all break into song and dance?” Hunk grins as he steps into the dugout, placing his bag on the bench and quickly taking out his bat.

“Well, I do love a good solo. I even—”

Lance’s words stop registering in Hunk’s brain. He had turned to hook the handle of his bat in the chain-link fence, but it slips from his grip. It falls to the ground with a deluded metallic thud. Keith is bent over, mitt behind him, and standing on the mound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter! I ran into a slump and it was really hard to figure out how to get Keith and Hunk BI-ZZAAAYYY


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> attraction be damned. Keith has a game to win.

Allura signs for yet another fork ball, which Keith clicks his tongue in annoyance. He knows what she’s doing—trying to strike fear into the other team. He thinks it’s silly; everyone being so hyped up for a simple practice. Apparently this team is their team’s rival, not that that sort of thing means anything to Keith. He hadn’t bothered with the details, simply saw it as another day on the field.

He wants to shake his head no, tell her off of that sign, but he knows better than to second guess Allura’s calls. And its silly to do that during warm-up anyway. Shiro and Allura had a good thing going and Keith knows part of that included Shiro trusting his catcher. So he straightens and winds up for the pitch. He grips the ball wide, fingers straining against the red laces, and throws. He follows through; arm crossing his chest and trailing leg landing in front on the dry dirt which sends up a small cloud. He lets out his breath, as he is accustomed to holding it when he pitches. He hears the ball snap into Allura’s mitt and she doesn’t have to move an inch—the ball lands exactly where she had asked it to be. Keith sees the smirk that curls the corner of her lips. Keith’s forkball is impressive, but certainly not his best. Though, it has speed and absolute no spin, which makes the sink that much more difficult to hit.

“Nice!” Allura shouts and shifts to her knees, throwing the ball back.

Keith sighs as he catches it, looking down at the dirt and kicking at the small divot he’s carved for himself to resettle into position. However, when he’s just about ready for Allura’s sign, he hears the sound of a bat dropping onto the ground. It catches a few people’s attention, heads turning toward the home team dugout.

If there had been a breeze it would’ve knocked Keith over. Standing wide eyed in the dugout is none other than Hunk Garrett. Keith stares back, uncertain of exactly how he should be reacting. So, as is his default, he doesn’t react. Allura’s sharp whistle gains his attention before he has a chance to anyway.

“Come on, quit daydreaming. We’ve got a little more time before fielding drills,” she yells to him and punches her fist into her mitt, squatting and signaling a pitch between her legs. One finger, straight down. She wants his fastball.

Keith sighs again, but he supposes he’s warmed up enough for it. Now that there has been a pause in the flow of the practice, of course Allura wants to break this pitch out. Despite not necessarily enjoying being a showoff…Keith suddenly very much wants to show off. Hunk is here. He goes to Garrison, he plays baseball. Of _course_ he’s here. Keith is foolish for not connecting the obvious dots before.

A chill runs down his spine, raising goosebumps on his arm. It’s a new feeling and kind of nice. Keith fights off a grin with a serious frown as he nods his head and winds up for the pitch. He chances a single glance over toward the dugout once more and Hunk is still there, a statue—a tall, big, _thick_ statue. Keith swallows heavily but blinks, forcing himself to regain focus. Now isn’t the time for those kinds of thoughts; especially when thoughts of last night are already assaulting his brain.

He throws the pitch, body moving automatically at the long-practiced motion. The ball leaves his hand, cutting through the air at a jaw dropping speed and cracks into Allura’s mitt. She holds the closed mitt still a little ways in front of herself and smirks. There’s a short silence in the field before small murmurs begin to buzz. Allura looks satisfied with the outcome, evident from the look on her face when Coach Coran calls her over, a bewildered Shiro next to him. She lifts the ball in the air and tosses it to Keith before she jogs off.

Keith catches it and is then left alone on that mound. He knows there are many eyes on him, he can feel their stares. But he’s only concerned with one set of eyes in particular. Twirling the ball in his hand, he turns toward the dugout and catches Hunk’s gaze. His large hands are gripping the chain-link fence, leaning forward, with fire behind his eyes. Keith feels that chill again, running up his spine like ghostly fingers.

With little less than instinct guiding him, Keith decides to step off the mound and head over to the dugout. He tucks his glove to his chest, keeping his stare downward until he reaches the fence. “Uh, hi,” is all he manages to think of. He can already feel his temperature rising; ears prickling with heat.

“It’s _you,_ ” Hunk voice is low, whispering through a breath. And Keith finally looks up at him, chewing the inside of his cheek nervously. Hunk leans closer to the fence like some kind of jailed criminal, eyes burning with an indescribable intensity that has Keith’s heart rampaging in his chest. “You can throw the 88 mile-per-hour pitch.”

And then Keith’s brain hiccups, synapses coming to an abrupt halt as he blinks in confusion. Of all the conversations he’d quickly played in his head on that slow walk over to the dugout; this had not been one of them. And, as true as that statement is it’s…well, it’s just not really something at the forefront of his mind right now. Last night streams in his mind like a never ending looped video. “I—wh—”

“You’re going to pitch to me,” Hunk’s expression is dark, though not unkind. It’s as if he’s decided on a goal with sudden determination and he’s hell bent on following through with it. Keith feels his face warm under the scrutinizing gaze, and he watches Hunk’s fingers grip the chain-link even tighter. That chill runs down his spine again, and he still can’t put a name to the feeling. But two things are evident: it’s new and it’s strong.

“Hey,” a sudden unfamiliar voice breaks the tension between them and it feels like cold water dousing the flames between them both. “You got a problem, mullet?”

Keith offers the smallest shake of his head, mostly acting as a means to pull himself back to reality. He blinks a bit and glances over to the tall Garrison player donning the number one much like himself. He must be their ace. Keith remembers Shiro mentioning a guy whose pitches are diverse enough to be on par with his, but being that Keith usually tunes out chatter like that, the name escapes him. “Who are you?”

“Who—wow, who _am_ I? Didn’t even bother to check out our roster, huh?” The guy gestures to himself, leaning one hand on the fence next to Hunk. “The name’s Lance McClain, get used to it because you’ll be reading it in the newspapers a lot from now on.”

“Oh!” Something clicks in Keith’s brain, remembering some details of Hunk's and his conversations. He matches Hunk’s description. Keith lifts his ungloved hand and points a finger at him, snapping and saying, “You got your foot stuck under a sink.”

The pitcher’s eyes widen, a flush of red under his cheeks, and he struggles to get his words out. “Wh—how did…you—can’t just!! That’s…alright, you _wanna go?!”_

“Aw, Lance, cut it out,” Hunk says this and it's like a switch flipped. The deep, burning glow behind his eyes is gone. It’s quite jarring to say the least. His hands slip from their grip on the fence, turning with his palms up to placate his pitcher. “W-we were just saying hi.”

“Sure didn’t look like it. You were about ready to thrown down…” Embarrassment and anger aside, Lance suddenly turns his head toward Hunk then back to Keith, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Wait a second…’we?’ What do you mean we?” His eyes now slowly widen, and he draws in an ostentatious gasp when it all the pieces come together in his brain.

Keith’s expression falters, eyebrows furrowing confused at the rather exuberant person. This is the “cool guy” Hunk gushed about? He got slightly jealous via text for _this?_ Well, best friends are best friends.

“You’re the—” he turns away from Keith and glares at Hunk. “ _He’s_ the guy you told me about? _You told him the sink thing?!”_ That was a private matter!"

“You talk about me?” Keith says this without thought, a small smile tugging at his lips. It’s short lived however, as the two of them glance toward Keith in unison and cause Keith to let out an embarrassed cough. “Sorry.”

“You betray me? On this, the day of my daughter’s wedding? Fraternizing with the enemy...”

“Lance, it’s not like that. We...we’re just…” Keith sees Hunk pause; words lost on his lips as a faint blush grows on his sun kissed cheeks.

_We're just what?_ Keith thinks loudly in his mind, wishing he actually had the audacity to say it aloud. Before he can get any such courage though, both coaches' whistles pierce the air. A sense of relief washes over him and it’s all he can do not to let out a sigh. Instead, he looks back at Hunk and Lance whose expressions are unreadable and standoffish respectively. “It’s, um, good to see you again, Hunk.”

“Y-yeah,” Hunk replies. “It is. But like, about you, I mean. Duh.”

Lance snorts, fist coming up to cover his smile and Keith watches Hunk's demeanor falter. He purses his lips a little as he avoids Keith's gaze.

Shiro’s voice calling out Keith’s name is what finally gets him to move. He looks over his shoulder one last time toward the two Garrison players as he jogs away. Lance slugs Hunk on the arm while grinning from ear to ear. Keith’s expression scrunches, confused at the sudden change in mood from the Garrison’s pitcher. He can already tell he’s not going to be able to understand that Lance McClain anytime soon. But he'll try. He's Hunk's friend after all.

“Everything okay?” Shiro asks when Keith reaches him. He looks beyond Keith, eyebrow quirking a little as he watches the Garrison pitcher make some kind of snide remark only to have jersey number five chase after him with a bat. “They weren’t trying to start anything, right?”

“No,” Keith shakes his head and tugs his hat on a little tighter. “Just saying hello.” He taps Shiro’s chest with his glove and jogs past him too, toward their dugout where the rest of the team is congregating.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Coach Iverson and Coach Coran clasp hands and share an amicable conversation of their goals for the joint practice. They decide it’s best to do individual team drills and then just go straight on into a practice game. The sight is funny to say the least; the coaches standing next to each other looking like they’re from two different planets. One bright colors and vibrant hair, the other a war veteran, history professor who doubles as a coach.

Keith now sits off to the side in the dugout as Coran debriefs on what he expects out of them during the game. Shiro stands next to him with his clipboard and jots down notes every once in a while. Keith suddenly feels a presence next to him when there previously was empty space, divided form the rest of the team. He looks up, surprised but not startled.

“What were you talking about earlier?” Allura asks with a curious gleam to her bright eyes. “I saw that…interaction with those two Garrison guys. Their ace looked like he wanted to fight you,” she giggles. "He's kind of cute."

Keith considers not answering for a moment, but decides against it. She’s obviously trying to connect which is still light-years more than anything his other teammates have put forward. “Nothing really, just, uh, we’ve met before.”

“Really?! Then you know about him, right?”

Keith turns more toward her, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a powerhouse _._ He’s broken the record for most home runs in our division _and_ three other divisions. Not to mention his RBI count is off the charts.”

“The…pitcher?” Keith asks slowly.

Allura rolls her eyes, smacking Keith with her glove. “No, you dork, number five! The big guy!”

Keith’s stomach does a little flip at that, butterflies fluttering, and he looks out across the field to the home team dugout. He watches Hunk carefully listen to his coach, eyes steadfast and concentrated; with just a hint of that darkened look from before that had sent Keith to another plane of existence. Allura leans over and speaks close to his ear.

“It’s like you two are destined to be rivals,” her tone gives her excitement away. She’s thrilled at the concept. “With a record like his, even you’ll have a hard time striking him out.”

The hair on Keith’s arm stands on end and for the third, though not uncomfortable, time that day, the chill runs through him. Allura leans over, glancing up at Keith’s expression to get the best read of it. “Are you in it for real now?”

“I…”

“Will you pitch for me without holding anything back?” Her eyes narrow as her grin grows on her face. "Will you leave all that crap off the field and give me everything you've got?"

“I will,” Keith nods slowly a few times, thoughts streaming through his mind faster than he can identify them. But he knows one thing for certain: whatever last night had started is going to be put on hold for the next nine innings.

 

* * *

 

 

Or...

So he had planned.

Keith’s usual routine when playing is to drown out all else, focus only on Allura’s mitt and watch for Shiro’s signs when there are players on base. But Keith finds it increasingly difficult to concentrate today. He knows why. He’s not _completely_ daft. He just…didn’t expect it to be such a challenge.

At first, Garrison wins the coin toss and decides to field. Their defense isn’t something to blow your nose at either. The Lions’ batter lineup might be strong, but Garrison really holds their own. Keith watches them field his teammates’ hits like they’re mere practice drills. And when it’s Keith’s turn, they're at two outs with no runners on base. Lance’s grin is gleaming brightly from the pitcher’s mound and Keith avoids his gaze when he steps into the batter’s box. The first pitch he waits, studying it. He makes note of Lance’s form, looking for any tells that would help him in future at bats. The second pitch feels right and Keith takes a swing, making contact and tipping the ball up and over the fence behind home plate. Just when Keith is feeling like he’s got a good rhythm going, getting contact on Lance’s pitches one after another, he catches a glimpse of Hunk in left field, hunched over with sharp focus. Another pitch suddenly whizzes by and he blinks rapidly, glancing back at the small catcher’s mitt behind him. The catcher grins wide, her expression cat-like, as he’s called out.

If he’s pitching any worse than usual, however, Allura doesn’t let it show. She stands off to the side retying her thick hair as the next batter walks up to the plate after Keith's first strike out of the inning. Keith recognizes him as their shortstop and he bears a striking resemblance to the Garrison’s catcher.

The teammates from the home dugout yell cheers of support and he lifts his hand like a humble leader. He steps into the batter’s box after Allura settles and pulls her face mask down. They’re given the signal to play ball and Keith leans over, twirling the ball behind his back as he reads Allura’s sign.

_Slider, down and out, slower than usual. Make him reach._

He nods and straightens up, holding his mitt close to his chin as he adjusts his grip on the ball. He looses the ball quickly, following through his motion and watches as the batter takes the bait.

“Good contact! Way to get a piece of it!” The Garrison’s players yell as the ball follows a nasty trajectory into foul territory. Allura signs for the same pitch and Keith obliges. The batter swings again, barely tipping the ball as it bounces straight into the dirt for another foul.

Then it’s back to square one. Keith takes a deep breath, holding it in for a moment before letting it out and glancing toward the dugout. He sees Hunk squatting with a bat across his lap. He’s up next; silent and focused unlike the rowdy players behind him. His thighs are strong, white pants pulled tight over them in his current position. His mirrored glasses rest on top of his head, over his hat, and he pouts his lower lip in thought. Keith knows he’s starring, and its evident Hunk notices too. A shiver passes through Keith as Hunk’s gaze suddenly darts his way, eyes making contact in a way that has Keith taking a step back.

“ _Christ_ ,” Keith says this fast and easily, an automatic response pulled from him in a way no one has ever done before. Hunk has that affect on him. A buzz of excitement begins to thrum in his chest, eager to get this batter out. He tilts his head, stretching out his neck a little as he resettles into position and forces his attention back on the game. Allura squats, pressing her hand close to her thigh as she signals again.

            _Forker. Wide grip. Let it float._

Keith nods again, adjusts his grip and throws the pitch. He hears Coach Coran hoot and holler delightfully when the batter swings and misses.

“Nice out, Keith!” Coran yells again. “Gave him the ole what-for!”

Keith nods towards his coach, not really understanding his compliment, as the batter groans and angrily stomps off. His teammates are there to cheer him up, offering butt slaps and shoulder pats alike.

Allura throws the ball back to Keith and just as he catches it, the air changes. He watches Hunk stand and replace his hat with his helmet, mirrored lenses now covering his caramel eyes. He takes a few practice swings, hard and fast, cutting through the air with a power unlike Keith has ever seen. Keith swallows heavily.

“Give him hell, Hunk!” someone yells from the dugout and Hunk smiles. He taps his bat against the ground, forcing the doughnut weight that was on the barrel loose, and it falls to the dirt with a dull thud. He glances over to his coach, who gives him a few signs, before making his way to the batter’s box.

Keith watches him like a hawk and it’s like time slows and sound cuts out. The strike zone seems infinity smaller once Hunk stands in the box, lifting one hand up as he taps his bat against his cleats. He settles into his batter’s stance, elbows up and knees bent. A true cleanup hitter doesn’t let the number of outs affect them, and Hunk is showing an unbreakable will.

Off to the side, both the players in the dugout and the field can sense the change. Glances and whispers are exchanged as the game is put into play once more. Allura squats down and Keith watches as her gaze scans Hunk up and down quickly before making eye contact with him. She holds four fingers down, shimmering with bright blue painted nails.

            _Changeup._ _Inside_.

Keith chews his lip for a moment, but nods nonetheless. He leans back, winding up his pitch, and lets it go in one swift movement. The ball sails across the stretch, off-speed, and placed perfectly in the strike zone. Hunk doesn’t even flinch. The ball flies past him into Allura’s mitt, slapping loud into the silence of the field. Keith lets out his breath, shoulders slumping only a little as his eyes widen. Strike one.

There are no cheers of encouragement, everyone seems to be just as caught in the moment. Keith waits for Allura again and she signs for a slider. It’s still not the best pitch he has, but Keith nods. He winds up, throws, and Hunk still does not move.

“Quit standing like a log and swing, dammit!” Hunk’s coach growls from the third base line. Keith’s eyes are wide again, his heart pounding in his chest and he can hear it in his ears. Strike two.

Suddenly Keith sees it. It’s subtle, small, and just for him. Hunk shook his head. Keith can hear his voice in his mind perfectly, low and deep, and it feels like glowing embers of a dying fire. He’s saying no. He doesn’t want a changeup. He doesn’t want a breaking ball.

Keith swipes his tongue over his lips, tasting the salt of sweat and dirt. He goes straight into his pre-pitch stance, nodding at Hunk. He notices Allura’s confusion, not having given her sign yet, but it doesn’t take her long to realize what’s happened. Keith watches her dart her gaze up to Hunk, roll her eyes, and then quickly signal.

_Fastball. Straight down the middle. Give it all you got._

Keith doesn’t bother nodding to Allura’s sign since he’s already made up his mind. He goes into his wind-up as soon as she opens her mitt. For a short second, he closes his eyes and focuses. And without a moment’s warning, he suddenly twists sharply, arm crossing up and over as he unleashes his pitch.

The next second goes by faster than anyone, even the coaches, can process.

Hunk’s body moves swiftly, cutting into the pitch in a fast blur and the piercing clang of metal colliding with the ball cracks high into the open sky. The ball flies at a daunting speed, like a bullet heading straight toward the gap between shortstop and third. However, Keith’s body moves on its own, like electricity shooting through him and bringing him to life. He reaches across his chest, mitt yanking the ball out of the air as fast as it took off.

Then there’s silence. All is still except for Keith who, in his momentum, spins and stumbles a bit as he cradles the mitt close to his chest and rounds the pitcher’s mound. He waists a moment, then two. On the third he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before looking back up towards home plate.

Cheers erupt into the silence; hoots and hollers from the Lions as they already hustle to gather their mitts and hats to head back out onto the field. Keith doesn’t move though, he merely stands there on the mound staring back at Garrison Community College’s cleanup, powerhouse hitter.

“You…” Hunk lifts his hand to his helmet, tugging it up as he stares incredulously toward Keith. “Caught that?”

Keith tries, he really does, but he can’t stop the toothy grin that stretches across his face as he nods sharp and quick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter is a little boring. Writing baseball is a lot more fun than reading probably lol  
> Hunk is number 5 because that was my number when I played.  
> Also obviously that last scene is that one gif. You know the one. Also know as the best interaction between professional baseball players ever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2x the baseball!! 2x the sexual tension!! ALL AT A NEW LOW PRICE!

The sensation is indescribable. Even with his batting glove on, Hunk can feel the sting of vibration when his bat collides with the pitch. The entire side of his palm becomes a little tingly as he stands there wide-eyed and slack jawed at Keith. He watches Keith stumble a bit, rounding the mound and looking tentatively up at him. Hunk can’t string together two thoughts to save his life, but he knows he’s got to say something quick. “You…caught that?” And the radiant smile that Keith shows him is enough to have Hunk's knees turn to jelly. However, as charming and cute as that smile is, something strong sparks to life from deep within Hunk. He feels it bubble and churn and he grips his bat tightly, staring down at it with silent intensity.

“Hey,” Lance’s hand on Hunk’s shoulder suddenly pulls him from his…what was that exactly? Anger? No, Hunk isn’t mad. Frustration, maybe? “You’ll get it next time. Game’s just beginning. Uh, Hunk?”

Without responding, Hunk looks back up to Keith who’s leaving the mound now. His jaw sets, eyes narrowing behind his shades when he sees Keith turn one last time to wink at him. _Wink!!_ Hunk shoves his bat into Lance’s arm and grabs his own mitt that Lance had brought to give him. “Oh, it’s on now.”

 _Competition_. That’s got to be what it is. He yanks his batting glove off and stuffs it into his back pocket as he leaves Lance alone on home plate. Lance blinks owlishly a little and watches Hunk stomp off to left field. He quirks an eyebrow and meets Pidge at the entrance to the dugout.

“What’s with him?” she asks nodding her head toward Hunk. “He’s usually good at shaking off an out like that. He looks pissed.”

“I don’t think it’s the out that’s making him so agitated.”

“Okay,” Pidge draws out the word with an inquisitive expression. “Then, what?”

“I have a feeling our sunshine boy doesn’t know how to process sexual tension,” Lance says and lets out short laugh. He slips Hunk’s bat into his place on the chain-link fence and grabs his mitt with a sigh. “Well, at least this means he won’t hold anything back now. Maybe we’ll even win!”

“Is that all you care about?”

“Of course not. I care about the environment too.”

Pidge rolls her eyes but smiles nonetheless as they make their way out to the field.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day continues on with an intensity that has no right to be in a practice game, but if either Coach is displeased by this they don’t show it. Hunk manages to bang up his elbow pretty good while making a dive to catch a fly ball. It stings a little, bleeding as he throws the ball back toward infield while his team shouts, “Two outs!” He finds the clump of dried soil that he had scraped against and tosses it over the back fence.

His fingers tingle with excitement, adrenaline buzzing through him like a drug. There’s just one more out. One more out till the next inning and he’ll be up to bat. Keith had managed to get three consecutive strikes almost exclusively with each inning so they’re slowly crawl through their batting line up. It’s been frustrating to say the least, and the Garrison Cadets are chomping at the bit to get some runs.

The afternoon slowly passes by and the sun beats down on the teams mercilessly. The score is 4 to 0 and there isn’t much game left. Hunk bites his lower lip hard enough to scrape some of the dry, thin layered skin off. He spits it out as he bends over, watching Keith carefully as he steps up to the plate. As amazing as his pitches are, Hunk can’t help but get a little big headed about his batting compared to Keith’s. Sure, he can hold his own on the plate against Lance’s pitches, but when it comes down to it, he lacks patience.

Hunk finds himself smirking as Lance throws the first pitch to Keith who swings and hits nothing but air. Hunk can see the frustration in his body language. He’s tense, frantic to make contact with the pitch. Hunk knows the feeling well. He’s been chasing that damn fast ball all game. He was able to hit it the first inning, but since then he’s had no luck. Of course as mentioned, he hasn’t had many tries since Keith is able to end the inning before they get very far in their batting lineup. Be that as it may, he’s ready to try it one last time.

With two strikes and a ball, Keith swings at the next pitch. The metallic clang signals contact and the ball soars into the air; a pop fly.

 _Too easy,_ Hunk thinks as he jogs forward, eyeing the ball as it reaches its peak and arcs down toward him. He punches a fist into his mitt once, calls off the other fielder, and catches the ball. Without waiting a beat, he begins jogging in toward the dugout for the change of inning. This will be their last at bat; last chance to score any runs at all. He looks up and his eyes catch Keith’s as Keith slows around first base, rounding it out of the field to return to the away team dugout.

He doesn’t know what comes over him, but suddenly Hunk is sticking his tongue out like some kind of third grader. He lifts his mitt— the ball still safely enclosed inside— and gives it a little jazz hand wave. His taunting and giddiness suddenly turns cold, a chill running down his spine, when he sees the icy glare Keith gives him from across the infield. Hunk is frozen, wide eyed and dry mouthed as he watches Keith smirk and turn away into his dugout; lost among the crowd of jerseyed payers.

“I’ll make you pay for that, you big strong _handsome_ man you,” Lance’s sultry voice is suddenly in his ear, breath warm against his skin. Hunk practically leaps out of said skin, and slaps a hand against the back of his neck where goosebumps have risen. Lance’s easygoing expression and hands on his hips offer no explanation for what he just, dare Hunk think it, seductively whispered into his ears. Lance can see Hunk’s confusion though, so he merely shrugs and unhelpfully clarifies, “That’s what he was thinking just now. I never told you this, but I can read minds.”

Hunk knows he’s blushing now and he sputters a bit, waving his free hand around like there’s a bee in his personal bubble. “Pssh. Whaaat? Th—that’s not! No, he—the _death glare_? _That’s_ what you got out of it?!”

“Hunk, none of us were born yesterday,” Lance keeps calm, lips turning up in an amused if not slightly teasing smile. He leans forward a little bit, stretching his back. “You two have been going back and forth all game. Even I’m all worked up now too.”

“Going back and forth?” Hunk asks with raised eyebrows and Lance rolls his eyes.

“Flirting! Helloo?”

“Flir—How is _that_ flirting?!”

“Oh, please,” Pidge suddenly cuts in and startles the both of them. She’s up to bat first, and then it’s the right fielder. Hunk is batting cleanup. Pidge dons her helmet and gloves; bat resting over her shoulder looking like some sort of delinquent. “It’s totally obvious you two have the hots for each other. You’re so easy to read.”

“That doesn’t mean anything coming from you! You-you can read everyone!” Hunk argues, but it’s futile. Pidge smiles knowingly as she passes them and gives Hunk a hardy slap on the back and he twitches just a bit at the contact. With a rambunctious yell from the Lions’ coach, the inning gets underway.

“So um, what do you think it means?” Hunk eventually asks quietly as he and Lance sit down on the bench in the dugout. He tugs at his batting glove, and pulls it taught over his fingers that are swollen from the heat of the day. He doesn’t look at Lance, too embarrassed to do so. His heart thuds a little wildly in his chest and he can feel his pulse where his hat hugs tightly on his head. “The…tension between Keith and me?”

There’s a moment’s pause as if Lance is considering his question seriously. They both suddenly turn their heads toward the field at the sound of a metal bat colliding with the ball. They both jump to their feet, rushing the chain link fence of the dugout and grabbing onto it tight.

“Go go go!!” Lance shouts at Pidge whose speed already has her rounding first. They watch as the left fielder sprints to the ball and scoops it quickly into their mitt, throwing it infield with a fast precision. Pidge is quick to act though, sliding into second base with ease. The tag is just a moment too late and the play is called safe.

“Nice hit, Pidge!” Hunk cups his hand to his mouth and yells, previous discussion tossed aside. Now isn’t the time for those kind of thoughts anyway. It’s game time, right? Err, practice time. Whatever. _That_ should be the focus. From second base Pidge stands and dusts herself off. She gives them a toothy grin and thumbs up as the next batter is already walking up to the plate. Hunk slowly turns his attention to the pitcher’s mound, studying Keith in silence for a few moments. He watches the way Keith rolls his shoulders, jerking his head a little in a movement that looks to crack his neck. If he’s stressed by having a runner on base, he doesn’t look it. Hunk watches him settle back into his pre-windup as usual; mitt tucking in close to his chest as he glances to Pidge scooting off second base.

In a quick moment— fast enough that if Hunk had blinked he would have missed it— Keith turns and throws the ball to the second baseman. Pidge darts back to the base, sliding head first and just barely escaping the player’s touch. She’s called safe once again as the ball is thrown back to Keith. Hunk can’t keep his eyes off of him and it’s almost as if Keith can feel his stare. He suddenly looks up from his feet kicking the dirt on the mound, a fire behind his eyes that gives Hunk chills again. Hunk knows what he’s doing; he’s seen countless pitchers do it. Keith is testing them. Or more accurately, he’s _daring_ them to try something. He _wants_ them to try scoring on him.

Hunk’s hand twitches and he pushes off the chain link fence, grabbing his bat and walking to the small white circle in the dirt just outside the dugout. Lance calls out something to him but it falls on deaf ears, laser point focus causing him to block out everything else. He’s on deck and now that Pidge is on base, holding her own against Keith’s warning throws as she tries stealing, they might just have a chance to score some runs. He tugs on his helmet and adjusts his mirrored sunglasses before taking a few practice swings.

The right fielder that's up to bat now is down in the count, but hanging in there as she tips off one foul ball after another. Keith’s pitch count has gotten incredibly high these last few innings—slowly but surely they have gotten a hang of his pitch variety, but obviously not enough to actually get runs in. He’s just too fast on that mound; reactions quicker than anything they’d ever seen, and most people haven’t even made it on base regardless if they’re able to get a piece of his pitches or not. Hunk watches Keith nod to a sign, straighten, and wind up.

The ball collides with the bat in a loud piercing clang; sending it straight between the gap of first and second. A line drive toward outfield. The Garrison Cadets holler and cheer, standing up and crowding the fence of their dugout as Pidge takes off to third as soon as the ball hits the grass. The batter rounds first but is stopped short when the outfielder tosses the ball back to the infield to Keith. The energy has changed, momentum falling into favor of the Cadets.This is the most runners on base they’ve had all game and everyone is thinking the same thing. But Lance is the only one who has the gall to say it. “Hit the holy hell out of it, Hunk!” he bellows from his spot in the dugout, and it’s immediately followed by a cacophony of cheers and _yeah_ s! This is their final _real_ chance to score some runs. There aren’t any outs, but given the rest of the team’s record, this really is the last stand.

Hunk is already walking up to the plate, gaze steadfast on his feet as he tries to wrangle in his focus. He’s been in this type of situation plenty of times and with a practiced ease he gives off an air of nonchalantness that has everyone getting chills. Inside, however, Hunk’s heart beats like crazy; pounding in his ears like a never-ending drum beat. His hand feels clammy in his batting glove and he can feel the beads of sweat trickling down his back and slipping down his face. He chews on his dry lip again as he steps into the batter’s box.

Straight ahead stands Keith, eyes like daggers as he stares Hunk down every step of the way. The space between home and the mound is barren, like a no-man’s land that neither friend nor foe dares to enter. The Lions’ have all but silenced in their dugout and on the field, not running the risk to disrupt Keith’s focus.

Hunk taps his bat against his cleat, like he always does, and finally looks up to Keith on the mound as he settles into his batting stance. His jaw is set and the bat circles slowly, oh so slowly as he waits. _Give it,_ his body language practically screams. _I’m ready._

“I won’t let you,” the Lions’ catcher’s voice suddenly pierces the veil Hunk had created around himself and Keith. He blinks rapidly, shaking his head a little bit as he glances carefully toward her.

“H-huh? What?” he says, ruining any cool aura he’d developed thus far; the illusion shattered.

“I won’t let you hit that home run you’re dying for,” she says with a friendly smile that almost has Hunk stepping back in fear. “Your reign ends here, number five.” Her hand shifts between her legs, signaling to Keith, and Hunk hurriedly turns his attention back to the mound.

Keith’s arm is already pulled back and Hunk hardly has the time to even think about swinging before the ball is already snug safely inside the catcher’s mitt. Hunk’s eyes widen at the realization that he’s _already_ down in the count. He can hear cheers of encouragement from his teammates, but he dares not look at them. No. He’d throw himself way too off balance if he looked at any of them with their hopeful gazes and all-but-unwavering belief in him. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on Keith on the mound. He catches the ball that’s thrown to him and quickly lifts his arm, wiping the sweat on his face off on his sleeve.

“I told you,” Hunk hears the catcher again and try as he might to ignore her, he just can’t. Hunk is nothing if not someone who wants the last word in.

“You’re just trying to distract me,” he says through a grumble, but there isn’t any real anger behind it. Maybe a slight grumpiness. Not in the least bit intimidating. The catcher must sense this as her confidence doesn’t seem swayed.

“You seem to be distracting yourself,” she comments back. “Though I can’t say I’m complaining. I’ve never seen Keith so determined.”

“What do you mean?”

“Usually he’s just blankly going with the flow—doing what others tell him to do without really caring." She pauses, albeit a bit dramatically, but natural nonetheless. "He’s shaken off more pitches today than ever before, and I think it’s because he actually wants to _win._ ”

Hunk's eyes widen a bit behind his sunglasses, carefully studying Keith on that mound. Focused and still. Hunk hasn’t ever seen him play before, so he just assumed that this intensity was normal. Is Keith really playing differently today? Is it because of Hunk? Did he spark some sort of deeply rooted passion for winning? That’s not…too far-fetched, right?

Without warning, Hunk suddenly feels himself smile at the thought. And it isn’t snarky; not stemming from some sort of competitive flare, but true, honest happiness. He’s having fun; so much _damn_ fun. He can’t remember the last time a practice was exciting—at least to this level. He settles into his batting stance, ready this time for any pitch to come his way. Fast ball or no, he doesn’t care anymore. He wants to hit that home run. Not because he has anything to prove and not because he wants to show off or flex. He just wants to, and he’s going to give it his all to do so.

Across the gap between home and the pitcher’s mound, Keith’s expression seems to change. His shoulders seem a little less squared and he doesn’t look at Hunk.

“You ready for it, five?” He hears the catcher say slyly behind him. Her tone sends the message loud and clear. Hunk knows what’s coming next and his grip on his bat tightens, the rubber tape squeaking under the pressure.

Keith nods slowly to the sign and straightens up, glancing over his shoulders at the runners on first and third. Hunk watches carefully and notices something's off, like Keith is suddenly unsure of what he’s doing. Hunk’s eyes narrow in question, wishing he could read Keith like Pidge can. But it’s useless now. He continues watching as Keith follows through, launching that demonic fast ball toward him. But before Hunk has time to react, the ball’s trajectory suddenly turns sharply, wildly, and it dives straight down directly into Hunk’s leg that had been prepared to step into his swing.

Hunk lets out a guttural scream, short but loud, and then his teeth clamp shut in an excruciating expression. The pain is instant, fiery hot, and it spindles like shattered glass throughout his entire hamstring. His grip on his bat immediately loosens and it falls to the dirt with a loud clang. He drops to his knees next to his bat, hands shaking as the burning continues and slowly morphs into a heartbeat throb. The shadowed sunlight around him lets him know he’s instantly surrounded by people, but he can hardly distinguish one concerned voice from the next. His breath comes out shakily as he feels someone suddenly slip his arm over their shoulder.

“Hey buddy,” Lance says softly. “That’s gonna need ice for the next, like, seven days.”

Hunk actually lets out a soft chuckle at that, knowing the truth all too well. That was Keith’s fast ball alright, if the numbness in his lower half is any indication. He slowly stands; not letting himself put all of his weight on Lance but still accepting some aid. He gingerly puts his foot down and is immediately stabbed with another surge of pain that radiates and pulses. He hisses; teeth clenching shut again.

“Hang on, hang on,” Lance placates. “Don’t put weight on it yet, man.”

“It’s okay,” Hunk finds himself saying this without really planning to. The desire to relieve his best friend of any worry is too strong to stifle, regardless of how incredibly bad his leg feels. “I just need to sit down for a while.”

"Pfft," Lance snorts. "Yeah, okay tough guy. I think people down the street heard that ball hit you."

"It wasn't that h-hard, ow," Hunk tries to refute but another twinge of burning pain shuts him up. He can feel Lance's eye roll.

"First your elbow, now your butt," Lance laughs. "You should get insurance!"

Limping with tender steps, he lets Lance help him back to the dugout. He half listens to his coach who’s yelling something about ending practice, but none of that really matters. Not now anyway. Hunk looks over his shoulder, through his mirrored lenses, out toward the mound. Keith stands there with wide eyes and slack shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POW! RIGHT IN THE KISSER!!!
> 
> anyway....It's a bit shorter than normal and I'm not really happy with this chapter, but it is what it is. I just wanna keep on truckin' through this fic because it brings me so much joy!


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